Sand
by The Magnanimous Cockroach
Summary: An unknown session's Scurrilous Straggler meets a lady in the desert. SS/Ms. Paint.


He thinks it to be the height of cruelty. As if everything else wasn't awful enough – the war, the paperwork, the fucking _outfits_, and then that he should find her here.

She isn't one of his own (so to speak) and he hasn't ever seen her before, but she's in rags the same as him, covered to keep the dust from the cracks of her shell. He sees the pearlescence of her white carapace in the light of the tiny fire she has going, because it's going to get cold, and while their species can survive that way, it isn't comfortable.

It's likely she doesn't see him, so he stays in the dark, watching her, watching the light sparkle in the dark of her eyes, ink-black. They could be made from his own shell.

She deserves more than rags, he thinks, more than _this_ – who _is _she, and why is she here with the likes of _him_?

He doesn't know who else is here. Just the two of them? More?

What if it _is _just the two of them?

He uses the thought to rationalize approaching her.

"Hey."

She starts, and glances up, her mouth open in a little 'o' of surprise. "H-hello…!"

"You out here by yourself?"

She hesitates a moment, then nods, and her hands fidget on the frayed ends of whatever it is she's using to protect herself from the sun and the cold and the sand. The weather is ruthless. He misses the violet towers, the chambers, even his fucking _office_; he misses the place and he hates himself for it, but he hates himself for a lot of things. He misses the color. _Purple_. It's been so long since he's seen purple. There's nothing here. Only brown, with the occasional break of ivory or dull red.

She looks like she misses some towers of her own, although he suspects they are golden.

"Yeah. Same." After a moment, he sits down, opposite the fire from her. The heat blows against him, smoke and brightness and warmth in his eyes, which makes him narrow them even more than they already are. "Whaddaya call yourself, doll?" He could just call her that, if she liked, he thinks. Wouldn't mind it a bit.

"M-Miserable Pariah."

Well. She certainly looks it, he thinks. "Scurrilous Straggler. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sweetheart." He decides calling her a pariah would be rude, even if it _is _in her name. Better to just stick with pet names. They're both pariahs, anyway – makes no sense to exclude her even further, 'specially when she looks like the _miserablest _pariah. A dame like this just ain't cut out for this kind a life, but Straggler… he feels like he's been _made _for it. He's meant to do _something_, he knows. And if he isn't meant to rule Derse the way he wants, he's meant to have _this _world.

And hey, it's a shitpile, but it's _his _shitpile, and it's got a dame in it, so it can't be all bad.

Pariah looks pleased with him, too, and he can see the smile on her cheeks, though her mouth is covered by her rag. _Damn_, what a lady. He wonders who could exile such a sweet little thing, realizes he must be goin' soft or some shit, and then realizes he doesn't care because he's alone in a dustbowl, but at least he's got a pretty lady to keep him company.

"Have you met anyone else, Mr. Straggler?"

He can hear the hope in her voice, and he's sad (in a very vague sense he does not entirely recognize as sadness) to let her down. "Nah, baby. Ain't seen nobody here but you."

"Oh." Her eyes lower for a moment. "Well, that's alright. It's very nice to meet you. I hope that we'll be friends."

Oh, he _plans _to be her friend. He plans to get _very _friendly. Friendly as she lets him get. But he doesn't mention any of that, not for the moment, anyway. It can wait. For now, "Yeah. You found anything to eat around here?"

"…Um… no…"

"Hey, that's okay. We'll, uh," His eyes divert for a moment, staring at the dry, crackly shit in the fire. At least she's got something she made a fire with, or she found it on accident – and if she did, what made it? "…We'll stick together… might as well, right?"

Pariah smiles at him, her black eyes curving upwards. "Mhm… might as well."

He wants to ask her what happened that got her sent here. What she _did_. Who she was. About Prospit. He doesn't know much about it, really. His duties were important, and his… well, what passed for birth, during the wartime, didn't permit him much time to fuck around and sightsee, not that he was really into lookin' at stuff anyway. Lookin' at _people_, on the other hand…

"Someone oughta rename you," he notes.

"What?"

"You ain't lookin' so miserable," Straggler continues. "Look at ya. Smilin' under your mask."

She giggles, and turns away from him, entirely demure.

Yeah, this place might not be nearly as bad as it seemed.


End file.
